


While I'm Still Young

by ohmarqueliot



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi, ageing up, but also kind of marqueliot because i can't help myself, mostly queliot, time disparity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 13:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16577243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmarqueliot/pseuds/ohmarqueliot
Summary: Quentin visits Fillory to celebrate Eliot's birthday, but they're not celebrating the year that he expects. Post-canon.





	While I'm Still Young

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a Queliot fic, but Margo snuck herself in there a little bit too. I'm not sorry.

“What the flying fuck is this?”

Equal parts intimidated and amused by the outrage in Margo’s voice, Quentin paused at the door to the throne room. A handful of passing servants bowed to him as they walked past him out into the hallway, and if the harried looks on their faces was anything to go by, Margo’s current temperament was an accurate representation of the day. He wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

It was Eliot’s birthday, and everything had to be perfect.

He couldn’t see her face from his position by the door, but it was easy to imagine from both the set of her shoulders and the nervous expression of the man before her. His clothes and the tall hat on his head told Quentin that he was from the kitchens. “A chocolate fountain, as requested, Your Majesty.”

“I did not mean literally a fountain made out of chocolate,” she said, pointing toward the table beside them. The sculpture really was beautifully crafted, with an insane amount of detail carved into both the central pillar and the different sized bowls. He wondered what the cooks thought was supposed to go _in_ the fountain. “You get a normal fountain, and put the chocolate _in it._ _Melted_ chocolate, _in the fountain._ ” She waved off his apology. “Just fix it,” she said, turning away from him. Two of the cook’s helpers rushed forward to help him balance the tray that the fountain stood upon, but she had already moved on. She cast a thoughtful eye around the room, and then sighed when she caught sight of him by the door. “Oh, look who finally decided to turn up.”

He knew better than to take her exasperation at face value. Granted, he was absolutely sure that she _was_ exasperated, but he also had enough trust in their relationship by now to know that it wasn’t the full extent of her feelings. Walking into the throne room, he made his way over to her and slid one arm around her waist, kissing her on the cheek before looking pointedly around the room. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“It’s nothing,” she said dismissively, both of them knowing full well that it wasn’t. “Besides, whatever party I throw tonight, Eliot has to top in two months when it’s _my_ birthday.”

“Oh, so it’s entirely selfish.”

The grin that she gave him was pure wickedness. “Exactly.”

In truth, he felt more than a little guilty over the fact that he hadn’t been here earlier to help. He’d spent a few days in Fillory a few weeks ago, helping Margo set up the details (or rather, agreeing with everything Margo said she was going to do), but since then his studies had gotten harder and it had been impossible to find time to visit. Eliot and Margo had rolled their eyes over his decision to finish out his time at Brakebills once they’d brought magic back, but he had a need to know all he could, to master everything that the school could teach him before he headed out into the real world. Fillory wasn’t going anywhere, and he knew that he would be a better king when he’d gotten the best grasp of magic that he could.

Dean Fogg had reduced Quentin and his friends’ second year into a three week course once they’d returned to Brakebills, considering the knowledge and experience they’d achieved. Now, they were half way through the last semester of their third year, and his time was feeling more and more stretched. Eliot and Margo had declined the offer to return to school, citing their responsibility to Fillory as their priority. Quentin knew that was true, but he also couldn’t imagine either of them sitting in a classroom anymore. Despite that, he missed them more than he could have imagined.

His attempt to reunite with his best friend had been thwarted, however. Disregarding the long night ahead of him, he frowned to Margo as he walked over to the decanter and poured both of them a glass of wine. “I went to find Eliot to tell him ‘happy birthday’ when I first got here,” he said, holding one of the glasses out to her and taking a sip from the other. “His door was locked with magic, and he wouldn’t answer.”

Margo looked at him askance. “Honey, he’s going all out for this thing. If anyone sees him before he makes his grand entrance in a few hours, he’ll throw a fit. Speaking of…” She crossed her arms, letting the glass dangle from her fingers as she looked him over from head to toe, her eyebrows rising when she met his eye again. “ _That’s_ what you’re wearing?”

Alarmed, he looked down at his outfit, plucking at the hem of his navy button-down nervously. He’d bought it new for the occasion. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Pursing her lips, she shook her head at him. “I swear I have to do everything around here. Lucky for you, I anticipated having to dress you properly. Follow,” she said sharply, turning on her heel and walking away from him without even looking over her shoulder to see if he would.

Sighing, he followed after her.

She led him through familiar hallways to his bedroom. Less familiar was the way everyone they passed paused to bow or curtsey or nod their respect to them. He wondered if he’d ever get as used to it as Margo was, then dismissed the possibility immediately. She had more royalty in her little finger than he had in his whole body. Maybe he’d get better at pretending, but he would never carry it as well as she did.

As usual, his room was as clean and ready as it always was whenever he came to visit. He almost felt sorry for the people who had to dust an empty room every day. At least they’d been expecting him this time. Jugs of water and wine sat ready of the table beside a platter of fruit and cheese, and a generous stack of wood was ready beside the cold but clean fireplace. An outfit was laid out neatly on the bed and he knew that, at least, was entirely Margo. Walking past her to the bed, he ran his fingers over the soft material, tracing the silver piping, admiring the subtle effect of the black embroidery against the black material of the shirt. He hadn’t put it past Margo to try and put him into something gaudy and ridiculous, but this looked… nice. “Thanks, Margo,” he said genuinely, glancing up at her.

“This isn’t a frat party, Quentin,” she said, looking well and truly pleased with herself despite the barb. “You have to look like a king.”

Somehow, he thought that maybe he would. At least, a little bit more than usual. It was obvious that she had put effort into this, and it touched him that she’d bothered with his outfit with everything else she’d had to organise. Tilting his head slightly, he glanced at the clothes and then back to her. “What would you have done if I’d turned up and you were happy with my clothes?”

She just looked at him, eyebrows raised, and he started unbuttoning his shirt without another word.

Margo helped him pull the new clothes on, adjusting the way the pants sat on his hips and doing up the dozens of tiny buttons on the front of the shirt. It sat tighter than he was used to but wasn’t uncomfortable, and he rolled his shoulders to make sure he had a decent range of movement. She stepped back to look him over, tugged at his shirt slightly, and then put her hands on his shoulders to spin him towards the mirror. He admired his reflection with surprise. He’d never quite be able to see himself as anything other than the awkward depressed super nerd, but he did have to admit that he looked a little more like someone who had his shit together. “I look kind of okay,” he said, not quite able to admit that he thought he actually looked _good._

Margo snorted, rolling her eyes. “Of course you do. I designed it.”

“And everything else,” he said, catching her eye in the mirror. “You know how much he’ll appreciate it. He’s going to have an amazing time.”

Her face softened for a moment, her smile warm and genuine before it lightened to a smirk. “Fillory hasn’t seen a thirtieth birthday like this one before, that’s for sure.”

 _Thirtieth?_ Frowning in alarm, Quentin turned around to look at her directly. “What do you mean, thirtieth?”

Margo widened her eyes slightly as though trying to determine how serious he was being. Or as though she thought he were stupid – both were valid theories. “You know. Thirty. The number that comes after twenty nine.”

He shook his head slowly, looking away as his mind jumped from one thought to the next in rapid succession. “But Eliot’s…“ _twenty five,_ he thought, but the words died on his lips when he realised that it couldn’t be true. He knew that time worked differently in Fillory than it did on Earth, but he’d never stopped thinking of Eliot and Margo as being just a year older than him. Eliot had spent almost all of his time over the last two years in Fillory and Margo almost as much... and he knew that it had been a lot more than two years for them, but he didn’t think it had been _that_ long.

Lifting his gaze, he looked at Margo, _really_ looked at her, and it felt like he was seeing her for the first time in months – or years. Her hair, pulled tightly back on one side and flowing in waves over the other shoulder, was still as dark as it had ever been, but her face had become a little slimmer and slightly more angular, and there was the faint hint of lines around her eyes and her mouth when she looked at him skeptically. She looked just as beautiful as ever, but the woman standing before her wasn’t the same girl in her early twenties anymore. “Thirty?” he said weakly, not wanting to believe the evidence of his own eyes but unable to deny it.

Her lips parted for a moment and then closed again, like she had something to say and then thought better of it, which was so unlike Margo that the sick feeling in his stomach sharpened into a hint of alarm. Taking a step forward to close the distance between them, she reached up to pat his cheek gently. Her mouth formed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry, Q. We’ll both always be super hot iconic babes.” Her hand dropped from his face to his chest, looking at the embroidery that her thumb brushed over for a moment before raising her eyes to look at him again. She looked as solemn as he’d ever seen her. “But in case it hasn’t occurred to that tiny brain of yours – nothing’s keeping you on Earth except you.” Slowly leaning upwards, she kept her eyes locked on his until she got close enough to make him cross-eyed, and he closed his when he felt the surprisingly gentle press of her lips against the corner of his mouth.

Her pressure of her hand on his chest and her lips on his disappeared, and when he opened his eyes it was to catch barely a glimpse of her before she disappeared through his bedroom door.

* * *

 

The party was undoubtedly a success.

Final touches had been made to the throne room and it was now a sea of silver and purple and people – most of whom Quentin didn’t know but assumed were of varying importance to either the kingdom or Eliot or both. The rest of their friends from Earth had appeared on the verge of being too late, saying that the clock had become temperamental in the hour since Quentin had gone through it.

Pushing down the thought that he’d been in Fillory for at least three times that long, he drained his glass and wondered how bad it would look if he got drunk before the party really started.

Eliot’s entrance, when he finally made it, at least made Quentin smile and shake his head fondly. Someone clapped their hands twice, the sharp sound silencing the room almost immediately, and a few seconds later Eliot strode through the open doors. Quentin rolled his eyes at the applause that broke out at his entrance, and then couldn’t help but grin when Eliot appeared to wave it all off, like ‘this is wonderful but completely unnecessary’. He could only imagine how offended he would have been if no one had paid any attention to him.

But who couldn’t pay attention to him? It was the norm for most people’s attention to be drawn to Eliot, let alone the fact that the party was in his honour. His desire to be in Eliot’s periphery warred with his instinct to stay at the outskirts of the party, and when his current mood turned him toward the latter he filled his cup and wandered aimlessly from group to group, not staying anywhere long enough to be drawn into a conversation but at least making it look like he wasn’t the awkward person in the corner.

He’d have loved to just be the awkward, depressed person in the corner, but he didn’t want anyone to see him and decide they had to turn his night around. He didn’t want to talk through where his head was at.

And he was good at pretending normal.

Eliot looked like he was enjoying his night, and the last thing he wanted to do was mess with that. He did look magnificent. His black shirt looked like a stiffer material than his, but was embroidered and piped with a combination of deep purple and silver in what looked to be a more elaborate version of what Margo had dressed Quentin in, and he wondered whether she’d done that on purpose. She’d changed too, into a black, short sleeved top in the style of a coat that showed off her cleavage and her small waist before flaring out at the hips and trailing almost to the floor over tight black pants. Her colours were black and purple, and it was like the three of them were a matching set.

It made him feel more a part of Fillorian royalty than the crown on his head.

He was glad they hadn’t tried to pull him up to stand beside them, because he was sure he never could have lived up to their standards, despite whatever clothes Margo put him in.

It wasn’t until a familiar arm settled around his shoulders and his heart did a confusing combination of fluttering and sinking at the same time that he realised that he’d been avoiding Eliot. His arm slid around Eliot’s waist automatically as he leaned into him, and when Eliot spoke he could feel his breath against his neck. “Well don’t you look dashing,” he said, his other hand coming up to pluck at the hem of his shirt, and Quentin could hear the smile in his voice.

It conjured a smile of his own before he had a chance to second guess it. Still, he brushed off the compliment with a shrug. “It was Margo,” he explained, looking down at himself.

Eliot scoffed. “Of course it was Margo,” he said dismissively, then tightened his arm around Quentin’s neck. “Still dashing,” he said, dropping his voice a notch, and he tried to take the compliment, tried to revel in the open affection that Eliot always offered him without reserve, but he couldn’t quite hold onto it.

Holding his breath, he forced himself to look at Eliot. At the touch of grey at his temples and sprinkled through his hair, perfectly coiffed under the golden crown that had once belonged to Margo. At the laugh lines around his eyes, deepened now by the wide grin on his face. This close, there was no mistaking it, and he felt foolish for not seeing it before now. He looked as perfect as he remembered him being when he’d first laid eyes on him on his first day at Brakebills, but he undoubtedly looked different. Older.

Forcing a smile, he tried to push it all down and focus on the moment, focus on just being here with Eliot and having a good night. “Happy birthday, El,” he said. Meeting his eye was too unnerving considering the flux of thought charging through him, so he looked around at the throne room. It was a marvellous sight, and he truly wanted to enjoy it. He didn't think his brain was going to let him. “Margo pulled out all of the stops for you on this one.”

Eliot sighed, loosening his grip so that his arm hung casually around his shoulders. “I know,” he said, sounding more resigned than appreciative or excited. “Can you imagine all the work I’m going to have to put in for her party in a few months? I just _know_ that she put so much effort in so I’d top it for her thirtieth. She’s been pulling this stunt for years.”

“I heard her talking about how much she’d love sculptures made out of chocolate,” he said before he could stop himself. “There’s a demo one in the shape of a fountain in the kitchens if you’d like to have a look.”

She was going to kill him.

He was feeling a little too self-destructive to care.

Eliot narrowed his eyes at him speculatively, but his smile never faded. “Let’s keep the Margo’s birthday planning for not today,” he said, turning him towards the tables along the wall where, amongst other things, the traditional chocolate fountain had been placed. Eliot bypassed it and reached for the wine decanter. He poured for Quentin, and then glanced up at him as he filled his own cup. “I’m glad you made it,” he said lightly, shrugging slightly as though he were already brushing off Quentin’s response.

Quentin’s arm was still loosely around his waist, and he put first his own glass down before taking Eliot’s and setting it beside his, ignoring his questioning look as he pulled him close. There were no half-hearted hugs between them – as soon as his arms were around him, Eliot’s tightened around his shoulders, chest pressed against chest, his cheek against Eliot’s shoulder and he breathed in warmth and familiarity and closeness. The thought that they might not have as much time as he’d thought pulled at him but he forced the idea away, tightening his grip. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said honestly. He was pretty sure his words were muffled against Eliot’s chest, and he would have thought them inaudible if it wasn’t for the way Eliot’s hand gripped a little harder at his shoulders.

He couldn't ignore it, couldn't pretend that he didn't see it. In the two and a half years since Eliot had first come to Fillory, he'd aged seven. In another five, he could be forty or fifty - the slower passing of time was too inconsistent to measure accurately, but it was always considerably slower than what passed on Earth.

And he _knew_ that. So why hadn't he thought about that affecting Eliot and Margo before now?

Why hadn't he considered the possibility that they would grow old and die without him?

Thirty was nothing. Thirty was still young. But how old would they be when _he_ was thirty? Would they still be alive when he was forty?

He'd fully intended to join them in Fillory once he'd finished at school, but now that just felt like an excuse to hide from a chance at happiness. How many more excuses would he have found? How long would it have taken him to realise?

How fucking stupid was he to have just happily ignored it for so long?

The hug went long and he knew he should pull away, but there was a measure of comfort that he always got from Eliot that he couldn’t find anywhere else. _I can't lose this._ Eventually, Eliot pulled back and he must have felt the tension in him because instead of throwing an innuendo at him, he held onto his shoulders with both hands, his brow pinched in a frown. “Are you okay?” he said seriously, the look in his eyes hinting at genuine concern, and this time he would have preferred the innuendo. This was more than he could deal with while his thoughts were such a mess.

“Yeah, fine,” he said, forcing a smile with what he knew was only moderate success. This wasn’t Eliot’s problem – especially not tonight. He shouldn’t have to deal with his frustration and self-hatred. “It’s just been a weird day. I – um – I should check on how the others are doing.”

Eliot looked down at him, his eyes searching and Quentin could just _feel_ him drawing the truth out of him. Instead of a probing comment or, worse, Quentin just blurting out his feelings, Eliot gave him a small smile that turned into a smirk so quickly that he wasn’t sure he’d really seen it. His body relaxed, his hands dropping from his arms, and he felt the loss probably more than he should have.

“Of course. Someone else has to play host so I can focus on enjoying the night,” he said lightly, draining his glass and then refilling it, topping Quentin’s up at the same time. Raising his glass to him, he turned to leave and then continued the spin until he was facing him again, and his eyes were alight with mirth. “Make sure you introduce them to the faun,” he said excitedly, and it was as though the drop in mood had never happened.

 _Is he respecting your wish to not talk about it or just protecting his night?_ he wondered, then pushed down the dark thought before it could do any damage. He had more faith in Eliot than that, and he wasn’t going to let his bad brain make this worse for him.

“You remember Thomas?” he continued, grinning widely now. “Margo and I have a bet to see who can call him Mr Tumnus the most before he realises we’re doing it on purpose. I’m on twelve and she’s on fifteen, so you’ve got some catching up to do but I'm sure you can make it work. He doesn't even realise it's a thing so it's more about him being too polite to correct us than him being annoyed about stereotypes.” Wiggling his eyebrows, Eliot grabbed his wineglass and disappeared into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, Quentin regretted making it sound like he had somewhere to be. He _wanted_ to spend time with Eliot, get drunk together and run amok and just have a good time but no, apparently he just had to ruin everything. Letting his breath out in a frustrated huff, he took his own wine and drowned it in three gulps. He needed to get out of his head. He needed some time to think. He needed… he didn’t know what he needed.

Before he could tear himself up trying to figure it out, an arm slipped through his and Julia was dragging him over to where Kady, Penny and Fen stood with a Fillorian couple who he almost kind of recognised. Glancing over his shoulder, he thought he caught Eliot’s eyes on him but he looked away before he could be sure.

He did catch Margo’s eyes, however, and was surprised by the questioning look she gave him. She almost looked troubled. He wasn’t good enough at lip reading to know what she mouthed at him, but he could just imagine what she was thinking. _Don’t you dare fuck this up for him. Have a good time and let him have a good time, you useless, no good, stupid piece of –_

Yeah okay, maybe they were actually just his thoughts.

And maybe he was being stupid. Nothing had changed since yesterday, or this morning.

He turned his mind to the party, and tried to pretend that he wasn’t freaking out about the two people who he loved most dying while he was still young.

* * *

Lifting her arms above her head, Margo enjoyed the feel of the soft sheets against her bare legs as she stretched out her muscles. She hadn’t drunk enough last night to warrant a hangover, but she’d warned the staff against disturbing her too early and fuck it felt good to know she had a bit of uninterrupted time. There was always something that needed the High King’s attention in Whitespire, but after all the effort that she’d put into Eliot’s party, she was taking the morning off.

She considered seeking Eliot out for breakfast – breakfast or brunch after a big night was a tradition for them – but didn’t want to bother him in case he had company. Maybe Quentin had finally found his way into his bed – the two of them had looked particularly cosy when she’d spied them the night before. They’d danced around each other for years, and she was certain that he’d been shaken when he’d realised that their lives were moving on in his absence. It had surprised her to know he hadn’t even thought of it, but she would happily use that against him if it finally made him make a move. On Eliot, or to Fillory – she’d take either. 

And what was he staying on Earth for, anyway? His father? Julia had healed his cancer when magic had come back, so he was in no danger of dying any time soon. His friends? He could visit them as easily as he could visit his dad. To finish school? He was a perfectly fine magician as it was, and anything he didn’t know he could learn in Fillory.

With them.

She wouldn’t admit it, but she was personally offended that he’d chosen a life away from her and Eliot for so long. She knew in her bones that he belonged with them. He just needed to realise the same thing.

A knock at her door had her pushing herself up on her elbows, and she smoothed her frown when it opened and Eliot stepped into her room. “Good, you’re awake,” he said cheerfully, nudging the door closed with his hip. He had a large tray in his hands, and he smiled at her as he carried it over to the table in the corner of the room. “The kitchen staff know us well – they already had this made up for us when I went down there.”

Slipping out of bed, she pulled a robe over her silk nightgown and walked over to him, the stone floor cold under her bare feet. “Why are you so chipper?” she asked suspiciously, her smile cautious but hopeful. Maybe he _had_ gotten lucky last night. But then why was he in her room?

Eliot pulled out a chair for her before taking the one opposite, removing the lids from the platters with a flourish. It was their usual fare of fruit and pastries, and bottles of both wine and orange juice that he quickly turned into mimosas. “The centaurs gifted me with a particularly wonderful potion that is a miracle cure for hangovers,” he said, pulling a tiny bottle from his vest and adding a drop to her glass.

She didn’t bother telling him that she actually felt fine – better not to let him know he’d wasted his precious potion on her lack of hangover. Taking one of the pastries from the tray, she tore it in half with her fingers, looking at Eliot from the corner of her eye. “Q could probably use some of this,” she said indifferently, popping a portion into her mouth and enjoying the tartness of the berry glaze. “Have you seen him this morning?”

Eliot shrugged with the same amount of nonchalance, taking a bite from a strawberry. Even after all of these years, they still enjoyed the armour of indifference, even with each other, and it frustrated her as much as she relied on it. “He went back to Earth last night. You’re right, though – he definitely made the most of the free alcohol. I sent an escort with him to the portal tree so he wouldn’t get robbed. Or fall into a ditch.”

Anyone else would have thought Eliot’s joking tone or his casual manner were all there was to it, but Margo had been seeing through his shit for close to ten years now. There was a tightness around his eyes that he couldn’t hide from her, a tense note in his voice that he couldn’t hide behind humour. Knowing that he could read her just as well, she dropped her eyes again to the food in front of her to hide her disappointment.

She’d thought Quentin was in deeper than that. Or braver.

Pressing her lips together, she took a deep breath and gathered herself. Eliot was obviously upset that Quentin had left, and she wanted to tear the kid’s heart out for causing that. More than anything, she wanted to knock their heads together and yell at them for both being so damned stupid after all of this time. She seriously questioned her resolve to let them figure this out themselves.

That wasn’t her role to play though, not right now. Lifting her glass, she held it up between them until Eliot clinked his against it. “To rocking the next decade together,” she said, smiling at him playfully.

“To you and me, Bambi.” Eliot’s smile was a little more reserved, but at least it looked genuine now. Her eyes flicked over his face, savouring that smile. He looked just as beautiful as the day she’d met him.

_Quentin Coldwater, you are a fucking idiot._

* * *

 

Reaching the top of the stairs, Eliot forced himself to keep to a normal pace as he strode through the corridors toward the royal wing. He wasn't rushing.

Quentin had arrived from Earth with a suitcase, but he wasn't rushing.

Pushing open the door to Quentin’s room without knocking, he took in the open suitcase on the bed before finding the man himself standing at his dresser, arranging his Fillory books in order on top of it. The excitement fluttering in his chest muted when he saw the tense set of his shoulders, and he was grateful that the guard at the gates had sent a messenger to inform him of his arrival.

This _looked_ like Quentin moving in, and that… Confronted with the possibility, he couldn’t hide from the fact that that was the only thing his life had been missing for the last few years. But he wanted Quentin to want it, and the guarded look in his eyes when he glanced up over his shoulder made him wary.

And maybe that wasn’t even it. Maybe he was still just visiting.

Careful not to let any of his feelings show, he affected a disinterested air as he strode over to the bed to peer at Quentin’s belongings. There was what looked like a photo book, a few other novels, and a variety of medications that he would investigate later. “So what’s all this?” he asked casually.

With a huff and a roll of his eyes, Quentin walked over to the bed, leaning past him to grab the other books and taking them over to the dresser. “Trust the castle staff to be quick with the gossip,” he said, his voice dark with a bitterness that made Eliot pause.

 _What the fuck is going on?_ “Quentin –“

“How long has it been since your birthday?”

Eliot took an automatic step toward him before stopping himself. Quentin’s back was to him, his hands gripping tightly to the edge of the dresser, and it occurred to him for the first time that Quentin was actually, genuinely angry. Had something happened on Earth? With his dad, or with school? “A bit over two weeks,” he said carefully, and felt his dread deepen when Quentin laughed humourlessly, hanging his head between his arms.

“I gave myself three days. Three days to say goodbye to my dad, to spent some time with Julia and Alice. And it’s been two fucking weeks.”

 _Goodbye?_ So, he was moving – but why was he so bitter about it? “The less cryptically you talk about it, the better I’ll know how to lighten you up,” he said flippantly, and wasn’t sure whether Quentin’s sigh was a good response or not. At least it was something other than anger. “Look, will you just talk to me? I know you were kind of off at the party.”

“It’s nothing,” Quentin said quietly, pushing off of the dresser and walking past Eliot to the bed. Grabbing the bag of pill bottles, he moved to stuff it into one of the drawers beside his bed and then pulled it out again in the same movement. Opening one of the bottles, he shook two pills onto his palm and swallowed them dry. “I’m moving in. That’s all there is to it. Remind me to apologise to Margo; I know she’ll be pissed to have to put up with my sulky depressed ass all the time. Don’t look at me like that – those are her words.”

The hurt and disappointment that Eliot felt was more for the fact that Quentin seemed so upset about moving to Fillory. He knew he’d dreamed of Fillory since he was a child, so Eliot had always assumed that, when he did finally come over permanently, it would be because he’d wanted to for as long as he could remember. And maybe he and Margo might have something to do with it as well. “There’s no rush,” he said, hoping he was on the right track about what was getting to him. Hoping it wasn’t that he didn’t want to be here at all. “You can still have a few months with your dad, and finish school.”

Shrugging awkwardly, Quentin returned the bag to the draw and turned to face him. “I’m here. It’s done. It’s time I acted like a king instead of wasting my time on Earth.”

Well _that_ clearly wasn’t the issue. As much as he knew he’d enjoy having Quentin co-rule with him and Margo, they’d managed to bring Fillory to a state of prosperity all on their own. He knew that he shouldn’t press the issue, but also fuck what he should or shouldn’t do. If Quentin was king of anything, it was ‘stewing on things until they ate him alive and it turned into a _big thing_ ’. “It’s just that this is all pretty sudden, and you’re obviously a little pissy about something right now –“

He cut off when Quentin threw his hands up in the air. “I didn’t realise you were thirty already, okay?”

_What?_

_Oh._

Eliot pulled back, pushing down his immediate defensive reaction. Apparently the fact he wasn’t a kid anymore was such an inconvenience. He made damned sure that his hurt didn’t show on his face, but he wasn’t sure if the twist of his lips was quite a smile. “Don’t worry,” he said lightly. “I’m going to age so well, you’ll love it.”

Groaning, Quentin brought his hands up to rub at his face, his fingers pressing into his eyes. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t care about you aging.” He dropped his hands and looked up at him earnestly. “I know how you look at every stage of your life, and I’ve never seen anything I don’t like.” He smiled faintly, and Eliot returned it uncertainly. He didn’t know where this was going, but at least he was talking. The smile faded, and Quentin pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth for a moment before he continued. “I care about watching you die,” he said helplessly, his eyes dropping to the floor. “You, and – and Margo. While I’m still young. I care about still having half of my life to live while you’re both already gone.” His hand fluttered half-heartedly at his sides. “I’ve already watched you die once. The thought of doing that again _and then_ having to live through another thirty years or so… I can’t do it,” he finished weakly, shaking his head at the ground.

Their past together hung heavily between them, along with all of the time that they’d spent apart since then. He’d known that the longer Quentin stayed on Earth, the greater the difference in age would grow between them and the less time they’d have together, but he hadn’t wanted to force his hand, not when he hadn’t come out and said that he wanted _together._ Quentin’s words now, though, and the pain he could see in his eyes despite the fact that he wouldn’t look at him…

Hope flooded through him with an intensity that he hadn’t let himself feel before now.

Eliot’s fingers itched with the need to pull him close, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop at just comfort, and they didn’t have that kind of relationship anymore – not since Fillory. He’d held back for years, not wanting to ruin anything, and if he did the wrong thing now and fucked it all up he’d never forgive himself. “What about your dad?” he said instead, trying to focus on the practical for once because he didn’t trust himself with the familiar. “What about our other friends? You wanted to finish school –“

“Fuck school.” Quentin finally looked up at him again, and his face was set with determination. “I can visit Dad whenever I want, and the same with the others. It’s not a choice, El,” he said, his voice softening. “Not once I realised that what I couldn’t live without was right here.”

His eyes were shining, his brow furrowed earnestly, and it was almost like… Eliot smiled cautiously, not quite willing to let himself believe what he wanted to see. “This almost feels like a romantic declaration, Coldwater.” Quentin’s eyes widened and he shrugged helplessly, his expression almost pained. Something in Eliot’s chest tightened. “Quentin,” he said, his voice quiet and thick with feeling.

Quentin seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he was across the room in two long strides. One hand grabbed at his shirt, the other tight around the back of his neck and then warm lips pressed against his, firm and sure. Eliot reacted instinctively, sinking his hair into Quentin’s hair and parting his lips against his, and he felt Quentin’s relieved sigh in his bones as he pulled him closer.

 _This_ felt right. _This_ was what he’d been missing – and it’s not as if he hadn’t known it, more that he was afraid of wanting it too much. But now Quentin was here, finally _here_ , and not only here in Whitespire but in his arms and it felt too good to be a thing that he could keep. He dropped one of his arms to his waist, pulling him bodily against him and it was almost painful how his memory of this had been so uninspired compared to the real thing. His imagination was vivid, but nothing could compare to the soft sounds Quentin made in the back of his throat, or the desperate way he clung to him, or the taste of him and the feel of his tongue against his as the kiss deepened.

Still… He pulled back slightly, nosing at Quentin’s cheek. He took a little solace in the fact that they were both breathing heavily. “So, to be clear –“

Quentin groaned loudly and Eliot answered his protest with his mouth against his, kissing him with all of the longing and hunger that he’d held onto for years. All of his excuses to hold back suddenly felt absurd, now that Quentin was exactly where he belonged.

* * *

 

“Just to be clear,” Eliot repeated some time later, and Quentin lifted his head from Eliot’s chest to look at him. His fingers had been teasing distractingly through his hair, and now his hand dropped to touch his cheek instead. Quentin shifted his body, revelling in the feeling of smooth, naked skin against his own. “I don’t want to live without you, either,” he continued quietly, his smile fading into something a little more serious. “And neither does Margo. You belong here with us.”

Quentin returned his smile easily, filled with joy and relief and post-coital bonelessness. “I know,” he said, and wasn’t surprised by how easy it was to admit. Things had always been so easy with Eliot, and he cursed himself for putting unnecessary space between them. He had been so fucking stupid. “I’m not going to waste another minute.”

“Good.” Jumping, he looked up to see Margo walking around the bed, smirking at them like she’d… well, exactly like she’d caught them in bed together. He hadn’t even heard the door open. “It’s only taken you for-fucking-ever.”

Kicking off her shoes, she leaned over him to hand Eliot a bottle of champagne with a distinctive Earth-style label. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he took it and, winking at him, took a swig straight from the bottle. Margo pulled on the edge of the blanket and Quentin rolled onto his back, clutching the blanket tightly around him in alarm. “Margo –“

Scoffing at his protest, she slipped into bed beside him, swatting his hands away. “Grow up, Q, it’s not like there’s anything here I haven’t seen before.” She settled in beside him, propped up on her elbow with her head in her hand, the other leaning on his chest. Taking the bottle back from Eliot, she raised it slightly to him. “Welcome home.”

She took a mouthful and then tipped it in his direction, and he struggled to take a drink while he was lying down without both making a mess on himself and looking like an idiot. He failed on both accounts, but when Margo pulled the bottle back both she and Eliot were grinning at him affectionately and he couldn’t help but laugh with them despite the gross feeling of wine dribbling down his neck.

She was right, he thought, relaxing into the bed, surrounded by people who loved him. This was all he needed. This was home.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


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